Grandfather Clock
by mochawhip
Summary: Routine is not always consistent, so counting the hours day by day is never dull. Short oneshot, KubotaTokito, light boylove.


Grandfather Clock

By mocha

Disclaimers, Warnings and Whatnot: Not mine. Kubota/Tokito, very light boylove.

* * *

The hours were set in an organized fashion for Tokito and he lived within this arrangement. Although others would disapprove of an unceasing routine, he found that an unchanging cycle held more than enough excitement and adventure for him each day. As the hands revolved closer to the hour in the grandfather clock, the clanging of bells told him that it was time to expect something new to arrive.

At seven in the morning, Kubota would rise from the bed and try to sneak out of their bedroom as quietly as possible. He always seemed to step on the creaky floorboard or close the door too hard, but Tokito didn't mind seeing him first when he opened his eyes.

At eight, Tokito would slip out of the bedroom quieter than Kubota, so Kubota always greeted him with a pleased and surprised "Good morning" in the kitchen. Then he would place a plate of some sort of breakfast onto the table – sometimes eggs, sometimes cereal, or sometimes last night's dinner, much to Tokito's dismay. After sleepy grumbles, a few curses and some prayers for better nutrition, Kubota would wave him goodbye and leave the apartment.

By nine, Tokito was already alone. Once Kubota left, he was usually settled onto the couch, arms clenched around a pillow, and fingers pressing against the remote's buttons. The television provided all the knowledge he would need, from the latest car crashes to overly-complicated politics, from historic battles across Japan to violent action movies, from silly children's cartoons to nature documentaries about birds or frogs.

By ten o'clock, he would have learned so many things, and yet would feel like he knew so little. But, he would remind himself while looking at his cell phone, that was why Kubota was here.

At eleven, his eyes would droop in boredom from dull afternoon talk shows and infomercials. His fingers would then reach for the video game controllers and with a hero's smile, he would turn the game on, ready for any battle.

By the time the birds stopped singing their morning cheer, it was twelve. Tokito's stomach would rumble, which symbolized that it was time to find food. If his game was locked in a tense battle, he would bear with what food they had in their refrigerator. But if it was a sunny day and if his stomach demanded more than curry and beer, he would grab the single key to their apartment and go out.

By one, Tokito would have already completed his mission for lunch, and was more than ready to end it. The endless groups of people outside paid him no heed, but every time he went outside, he always felt like there were eyes piercing his back. When he would spin around to find the culprit staring him down, he would only catch sight of more people passing him by. They never looked at him, but the awareness would always stay in the back of his mind. He would race back to the apartment and lock himself in again, with his gloved hand clinging painfully into the key. A look at his cell phone's screen would make him wonder what Kubota was up to.

His wishes were always granted at two o'clock. A ring from his pocket would instantly make him sit up from the couch and pull his cell phone out. Rants always followed about how horribly bored he was or how there was nothing edible to eat, but no matter what time it was, a laugh was always heard on the other side. By this hour in the day, all his tensions were lost.

Three was known as dead-hour, when the afternoon breeze would sweep the apartment clean and make him curl against the couch like a cat. His cell phone would be safely nestled in his gloved hand and with the soft wind flying through the windows, his dreams would be truly peaceful.

At four, he would awake from his cat-nap and pick up the game controller again. His heart would pump faster from the speedy action in the game, but he secretly knew deep in his mind that his quickened pulse was from the thought that someone would be home soon.

At five o'clock, a knock on the door would tell Tokito that someone had arrived. His hands would spare a second to pause his game, but then he would drop the controller and swiftly open the door for Kubota. Many options were available at this hour – perhaps Kubota would appear the same as when he left in the morning, or maybe his clothes would be unkempt from a delivery that involved risky dodges from gunfire. It always varied. But nowadays, Kubota would come home with a bag of freshly-cooked food from one of the local restaurants. One factor never changed, though – the familiar scent of cigarettes would fill the apartment again.

By six, Tokito was more than ready to do some simple lounging after such a delicious dinner. He would go to the couch, grab the remote, and flip through the channels, eager to see if a new movie was on or if the police caught another criminal on the news. But unlike the morning hours, he could ask Kubota questions on what he didn't understand, like why the bad guy in the movie always seemed to lose in the end or how long a frog in a tropical rain forest could live. And Kubota would inhale white smoke into his lungs, hold the mist in for a moment, and exhale once he found an answer that opened more doors in Tokito's mind. But with the look in Kubota's eyes, Tokito felt that he wasn't the only one who learned something new today.

At seven, Kubota would go back into the kitchen to make tea, or, if he brought ice cream home, he would create a fabulous dessert, the one thing that he could make properly, according to Tokito. On their most simple dinner plates, Kubota would pile scoops of ice cream in perfect order, then add chocolate syrup and whipped cream over them, and finish it off with a colorful dash of sprinkles on the top. The sprinkles were different every day, and Tokito would often wonder how Kubota could find so many types. But by the time the sprinkles were eaten and the plates licked clean, Kubota's breath smelled too much like sugar and cream for Tokito to care.

At eight, Tokito would toss a game controller to Kubota and declare a battle. After sharpening his skills all afternoon, he would be convinced that today was the day he would finally beat Kubota. Kubota would only smirk in reply, push his glasses up to reflect the child-like amusement in his eyes, and smoothly add a bet in the challenge. As usual, he would refuse to reveal what the bet was, but Tokito's excitement filled up any room for wonder on what it was. For him, time was precious in competition.

By nine, Tokito was punched, kicked, thrown and blown up in numerous gruesome ways. He would toss the controller away and rant his anger off at Kubota, saying he was using dirty tricks and cheating to make his character stronger. But the child-like amusement in Kubota's eyes would never waver, and when he would pull Tokito close to earn his prize for winning the bet, the numbers on the clocks would slow down.

Ten o'clock could occur in many different places around the apartment. Sometimes it would be cuddled against the fuzzy cushions on the couch, or resting on the rough carpet next to the television, or safely wrapped within the bed's white sheets that held a strong scent of cigarettes. The outcome for this hour was always the same, and sometimes it went by too fast for Tokito. Either way, the warm exhales that would escape between Kubota's lips and the wandering fingers that would slide along his hips provided enough distraction for him to forget about the hours.

By eleven, Tokito would be back within the sanctuary of the bed sheets, still annoyed that he lost another bet, but found himself leaning closer to the warm body next to him in the end. The nighttime would sometimes be hard to conquer, with only the dull glow of the moon to keep him company and the minutes to count off before sunrise, but the feel of Kubota's kisses on the back of his neck would erase such thoughts and draw him into another timeless sleep that would no longer be experienced alone.

Once he was asleep, watching the hours pass by would no longer be necessary.

-End-


End file.
